


Mercy Kill

by duraznero



Category: Bartimaeus - Jonathan Stroud
Genre: Canon Compliant, Execution, Gen, Hallucinations, M/M, Post-Canon, mentions of Khaba/Ammet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:42:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26654626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duraznero/pseuds/duraznero
Summary: King Solomon has already decided on the fate that would befall his traitorous former underling when a visitor arrives to Jerusalem.
Relationships: Ammet/Khaba (Bartimaeus)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 8





	Mercy Kill

**Author's Note:**

> Don't we all hate it when one of those random ideas just jumps at you and doesn't let you go until you wrote it down completely? That's basically what happened here for the entire last week.  
> As a whole this entire fic was a whole lot of fun and was partly written in the middle of the night (as in, 11pm-4am), because that's usually my creative phase of the day. 
> 
> Like almost always when it comes to BartSeq stories, I'm my own beta/proof-reader so if anything is written oddly or there's grammatical errors, shame on me. 
> 
> Without further ado, enjoy!

_**Solomon** _

The entourage arrived at night, hours after Solomon had already decided which fate would befall the traitorous magician. 

It wasn't something he spent his mind on a lot, as a matter of fact he had known that Khaba's life had been forfeited the very second he had touched the ring. Not necessarily by his own hand but rather by the fact that the Egyptian wasn't a wise man, despite being arguably the most powerful of his seventeen head servants, and unwise men with a direct access to raw power such as the type Uraziel wielded rarely acted with caution. And, of course, the magician had done exactly that — and in doing so lost before the game had even begun. The commands he gave Uraziel had weakened his body greatly, added multiple years onto his body and scrambled his mind; the latter could be reversed with just enough luck, but the former two aspects were a done deal. It could've been considered a tragedy if only Khaba weren't such a vile character. 

Word of the magicians reached him as he was finishing dinner. The main dining hall had been destroyed so he had opted to dine in his chambers. Despite everything, he wasn't alone — the extraordinary Asmira, the _true_ saviour of Jerusalem and perhaps even the whole known world, had graciously accepted his invitation to dine with him. He had been frank with her: he simply didn't want to eat in solitude. When Asmira had asked in a slightly cool tone whether Balkis wasn't enough pleasant company, he had smiled.

“She might have indirectly brought me my saviour, but she didn't do any of the work herself.”

Solomon knew the girl would be leaving soon. As much as he would have enjoyed it if she had chosen to remain here, be it as his guard or adviser, he knew that for herself, she made the right choice. It was a humble one but also extremely noble, and Asmira was many things as well as that.

“Nine in total, they're at the gates and demanding entrance. Leading them is the High Priestess of Ra herself.” The demon, a djinn wearing the shape of a slender boy, dark of skin and light of hair looked slightly nervous. “ _Demanding_ is kind of a harsh word, but I wouldn't be surprised if they were to just open camp right there in the air, o King.”

Asmira frowned at the creature's words. Solomon only chuckled.

“Ah, the High Priestess didn't exactly get where she is now for being the most charismatic person upon finishing her time as an acolyte I suppose. Tell me, slave, has the throne room been rebuilt already?”

“Not yet, master.”

“Well, send some 20 djinn to aid with the repairs there. I want it to be ready when Meritites gets to the palace. Maybe being impressed will humble her a bit.”

“Yes, master.” The demon bowed its head and left Solomons chambers.

“What do you know of the Theban Priests of Ra?” Solomon asked. Asmira shrugged as she chewed and swallowed her sweetmeats.

“Not much, admittedly. They serve the pharaohs of Egypt and were… are once a very powerful institution. Their magicians are, according to the old High Priestess of the Sun Temple, quite powerful, cunning and not to be underestimated. Those who heard of them in Marib believe them to be necromancers.”

“They are a quite seclusive sect indeed. Only few things that happen within the walls of the Karnak temples find their way out, and even then it's only whatever the priesthood desires to be public knowledge. Your High Priestess of the Sun is right — they receive formidable training as acolytes and are a force to be reckoned with. But necromancy? Nothing can bring back the dead — once something moved on beyond the veil, it cannot be brought back. Of course it had been tried, because such is the way of men, but never with any success.”

“Not in _that_ sense but rather that they,” Asmira straightened her shoulders, “do _things_ to bodies brought to them… bodies that sometimes aren't corpses yet.”

Solomon considered her for a moment then sighed. “For that I have no answer. But what I can tell you is that the magician Khaba is a child of Karnak and he likely is the reason why the Pharaoh sent his most powerful servant to me to barter for Egypt's innocence.”

Asmira's eyes widened as she realized. “He _did_ mention that he'd reinstall Karnak as the center of the world! It implies them to have been a part of the coup the entire time.”

Solomon nodded and finished his cooled pomegranate juice. “Exactly that is what I believe King Pasebkhanut was thinking. He is an experienced but old ruler, and he fears repercussions enough that he'd rather preemptively wash his hands. What interests me as well is the presence of Egyptian spies in Jerusalem, but that is a matter for another day.” 

The king took his plate and assembled many items of food on it; calamari rings, honeyed meats, pastries, sweetened figs, olives and pomegranate seeds. 

“Do fill your plate if you are still hungry. I'd greatly appreciate it if you joined me, but I'm not forcing you. You are free to remain at rest. I will await Meritites and her servants in the throne room.”

Asmira shook her head and did likewise with the food. “No no, I'll go with you. _That_ I really want to see.”

Solomon smiled and waited for her to finish and exited the quarters alongside her. Her departure would be quite the loss, he already knew. 

  
  


“King Solomon, _thank you_ for receiving us at such late hour, for it is a quite urgent matter as to why we are here.” 

The High Priestess raised herself from the floor where she had knelt in front of Solomon's throne and dusted off her knees. The floor _was_ quite dusty as a matter of fact which meant that things really had to be severe if Meritites was willing to kneel in the dirt in front of him. 

Along with her, eight other priests, all of them of relatively high rank, had traveled to Jerusalem. Regardless whether they were man or woman they wore the garb typical for the Priests of Ra; stark white tunics to symbolize the sacredness and purity of the priesthood, silver necklaces coated in gold around their necks for protection and lips painted black. Their heads were shaven and gleamed in the candlelight of the throne hall, which was half demolished, half reconstructed. Their browbones were hairless as well, with brows having been painted on the bare skin. 

The High Priestess herself was the only one who wore additional accessories and make-up; golden gauntlets that covered the back of her hands and separate segments of her fingers, giving them a claw-like appearance, two golden dots painted on her cheekbones and golden threads woven into her tunic, making it look more exquisite and extravagant than that of her colleagues. Their demons were present as well, most of them in human form as beautiful men with golden skin and black thick hair, with the exception of one; a lanner falcon with eyes the color of lapis lazuli — most likely the High Priestess's personal slave.

“High Priestess Meritites, you may rise. Welcome to Jerusalem.” Solomon greeted her. He sat in the hastily reconstructed cedarwood throne. Asmira had been given a small chair and was seated next to him, legs crossed and examining the Egyptians with a keen eye. 

“Apologies for the manner of our arrival — may your city be rebuilt as quickly as possible so that the world can once again be bathed in its glory.”

“Let us hope so, yes.” Solomon leant forwards and put a gentle but nevertheless sharp smile on his face. He was wearing the ring on his finger once again, and he could feel the Theban priests pointedly trying to not let their gaze drop to it. “Especially because the reason for its destruction was bred in _your_ citadel, was it not?”

Meritites's right eyebrow quirked upwards but otherwise her face betrayed no emotion. He had met the High Priestess before; a little more than 14 years ago when he had arrived at Thebes to speak with the late Pharaoh and returned with a new bride on his arm, Pinedjem's third-oldest daughter, and a new court magician, Khaba. A dark-skinned woman with angular features, a flat nose, big eyes the color of copper and thick lips, Meritites looked like the average woman of Upper Egypt, perhaps with Kushite or Nubian origin. She had already been the head of the priesthood back then and it seemed she wasn't intent on giving up her position but rather on cementing it. Back then there had been a harsh coldness in her face as well as in her voice, and it was still there — might've even intensified. _This will never be a woman to jape with_ , Solomon thought.

“I don't see the point in denying that. Now that you mention _my_ citadel, please do accept this gift from us, may it also serve as a show for reconciliation. Word of your faible for antique artworks and magical artifacts has reached us as well.” She snapped her fingers and spoke a syllable in Egyptian. Out of the air a purple crystal ball the size of a giant's fist manifested and fell into her hand. 

“This amethyst orb had once been given to Queen Khentkawes, who on her royal will passed it onto the priesthood, long before my predecessors had settled in Karnak. It houses five powerful spirits and is commonly known as the All-Seeing Eye of Khentkawes with which she could see the Northern wastelands beyond the Hellenistic Empire, the Eastern kingdom of India, the Southern tribes of the savannah and the volcanic islands beyond the coast to the West.”

Solomon nodded. “It is truly a very beautiful object.” Truth be told, he had never heard of such an item, but he remembered what he had told Asmira just less than an hour ago — that what happened in the inner sanctum of the Priests of Ra tended to stay here. It could also be how they had found out about the events of the previous night in the first place… maybe Meritites' cold gaze had never left Jerusalem, be it in fear of the Ring or in looking for an opening to strike fatally. 

The High Priestess handed it over to a human child that wasn't quite human and turned her attention back to Solomon.

“You are not one to mince words, your majesty. Yes, I am here to talk with you about the unpleasantries,” Meritites's mouth curled in displeasure, “one of our own has caused you. At his behest I give you my deepest condolences from King Pasebkhanut and wish that life, prosperity and health will enlighten your house once again as soon as possible.” 

Solomon tilted his head and flexed his hand, and as it was the one on which the ring gleamed, he saw several of the magician-priests behind the High Priestess twitch and exchange quick looks. 

“We have no desire whatsoever for an enmity with Israel, we are no fools. You know that as well.” Meritites' low voice might have a certain urgency to it but he could also be mistaken. “Khaba's treachery is all on him, he has distanced himself from Egypt and the priesthood since coming to Jerusalem.”

Solomon steeped his fingers. “So is that why he proclaimed that he would make Karnak once again the hub of the world?”

A pin could've dropped in the room as silence fell over it. One of the priests swallowed audibly. Meritites's frown deepened. 

“You see, High Priestess, _I_ am no fool as well. _I_ know that the stability of my kingdom relies on _one_ single thing, and I don't need to specify what I'm talking about.”

Meritites jutted out her chin and then bowed her head. “No, your majesty, there is no need. And yet I am here before you, not condoning a former son of Karnak and his actions but condemning him as well. He deserves to be judged.”

Solomon mulled over the words and considered her. “Judged by whom?”

“The gods and by extension their representatives on Earth.”

“ _Your_ gods?” He was beginning to understand what was perhaps the second reason for their Theban visitors. Asmira had also leaned forwards and eyed the Egyptians with anything but trust.

“ _Our_ gods, the one you pray to and the many we worship. Khaba is, despite everything, still Egyptian, both by birth and blood and Egyptian law demands that he be judged by a representative of the gods.”

“As the highest instance of _my_ religion and the one in whose service he stood, I deem myself more than appropriate to judge Khaba, High Priestess.” He was aware of the law of which Meritites had spoken but _unless_ Khaba had acted in the Pharaoh's interest the whole time, the verdict would be the same; for the love of everything that was sacred, he would receive the death penalty either way even if it was just as an olive branch towards Israel and Solomon himself.

Meritites gave him a small smile and bared a bit of her teeth. There was a large gap between her two front teeth and a fearlessness about the gesture that most definitely _wasn't_ being shared by the priests and demons standing behind her — they downright seemed to wish for the ground to open and swallow them whole. The falcon demon flapped its wings with a certain nervosity as it hovered next to the High Priestess. 

“That wasn't what I was implying, your majesty. _I_ can also function as a representative for this, having been granted such power by my position as High Priestess and being in the Pharaoh’s favor.” She paused briefly, waited for Solomon to interrupt her and continued when he said nothing. “Have you already come to a verdict, your majesty?”

“Yes, I indeed have.” Solomon raised the hand which carried the ring and Meritites closed her mouth before she could speak. “I have to admit, the punishment for this crime came most easily to my mind, I didn't have to think about it. Asmira,” He turned towards the young woman who straightened her shoulders and gave him a surprised look. The eyes of the priests and demons turned towards her but she only met Solomon's gaze. “let us say you were in the position to judge over the fate of my treacherous servant; would you have decided as quickly as I did?”

Asmira's face was calm as the sea on a windless day when she answered. “Yes, perhaps even quicker.”

“You see,” Solomon said to the Egyptians. “Asmira of Sheba here was the one who prevented Khaba from being successful in his grab for power. Had it not been for her vital assistance to my person, Jerusalem would have burned down to its foundations, I long dead and Khaba the blood-soaked ruler of this world.”

As he spoke, he kept his eyes on Meritites. Whatever one might say about the woman, she certainly kept her emotions under tight control. She was considering Asmira for a moment and then bowed before her.

“The world as we know it owes you much gratitude, Asmira of Sheba, if your role was even half as important in the foiling of this vile plot as your majesty tells us. May life, prosperity and health bless you.” Solomon wondered whether Asmira believed her or not. He assumed the latter; the young woman was distrustful by nature — good for her. 

“Thank you, High Priestess.” Asmira replied and eyed Meritites with a steely look. “I do understand your point; you are bound to follow the laws of your land — laws made by gods for _men_ to follow. I have no doubt that your pantheon is just and will judge appropriately.”

There was the smallest of slips in Meritites's composure; she didn't seem to approve by the way a commoner was speaking to her because a single muscle in her jaw twitched. She was quick to hide it though.

“Obviously, maid of Sheba.”

“Asmira is right — which is why I will grant you your demand, to communicate the gods' judgment over the prisoner.” Solomon put his hand on the armrest of his throne. 

Just like the High Priestess wasn't keen on showing negative emotions, she also limited her positive ones. Meritites bowed for the third time but this time her entourage followed her suit. 

“In the name of the Pharaoh, I thank you, King Solomon.”

“Tell me; does the completion of said verdict require you speaking with the accused?”

Meritites froze. Her eyes shifted across the room, unsure for perhaps the first time. 

“Why, yes. I believed that to be obvious? The representative needs to speak with the one to be judged, I am not all-seeing and all-present as the gods care.” She gave a careful smile. “No matter what the common rabble might say.”

Solomon tapped onto the armrest with his fingers. The High Priestess was a _delightfully_ cunning woman, with an almost unreadable face and a way with words. But cunning and eloquence was nothing compared to the power he wielded on his little finger and she was no threat to him; everyone present in this room and beyond knew that. Especially now that Asmira had opened his eyes; he ought to be careful and more sharp-eyed of his surroundings.

He would grant the High Priestess her wish, but only because he knew that the scale was tipped so far in his favor that her gamble was futile ever since it had reared its head in her mind. 

_**Khaba** _

The first mistake Khaba had committed that fateful night was getting drunk out of his senses. It had led to him being beyond careless to the point that just thinking about the things he did, and especially those he _didn’t_ think to do made his face go warm. 

Getting punched in the face by his until-then most trusted servant was the conclusion of his second mistake, one that had been many years in the making and had reached its ugly climax on arguably the most important moment in Khaba’s life.

He wasn’t sure what hit him the hardest; his own shortsightedness or Ammet’s apparent disloyalty. He was angry at many things — Solomon, the Sheban girl, that thrice-damned Bartimaeus, Xoxen, Tivoc and Gezeri for being killed instead of killing the girl, the others for not succeeding and having the freedom to return to the Great Abyss — but those two overshadowed them all. 

He had always been a careful and considerate man when it came to his plotting, striking only at the most opportune moment and making sure that _every_ troublesome factor had been eliminated before he made his move. Acting on a whim and gambling rarely went well when the stakes were that high.

He also should’ve never been so foolish to give Ammet relatively free reign and to not specify his commands, as there was no other explanation for the marid’s shift in behaviour except that he had voluntarily acted against what Khaba had told him — as far as he could. 

_Kill it, kill it, bring it back_ , he had shouted and thus Ammet had to have killed the djinni — there was no other way around, he was a _marid,_ by many names of Amun, and marids simply didn’t get tricked by meager mid-level djinn scarcely above foliots! 

Had Bartimaeus beguiled his Ammet during their chase, managed to cleverly use words to turn him against Khaba? He wasn’t willing to believe it; after all, they were more than the sum of two beings, but something so much bigger and more powerful

Had _he_ been beguiled by Ammet all along? Indulged the marid too much and lured by promises of undying loyalty as well as love, soft fingers stroking his neck and talons tearing open his back in the heats of pleasure, shared interests displayed in the vaults in both Karnak and Jerusalem, help and advice given to him for the better part of thirty years? 

The cell they had thrown him in as if he was nothing but garbage was equipped most sparsely; there was an imp light on the ceiling, flickering in pale blue; a corner in which he could do his necessities and a shaggy blanket made of rotten linen. He had to be below one of the towers because the air was cold and he soon found himself freezing even though it wasn‘t night yet. Ever since he had put on the Ring, he had felt drained of most of his energies, be they physical or mental, and in order to save them up for when he might need them, he huddled in a corner of his cell for most of the time, occasionally trying to stretch but giving up after his bones hurt more than they ever had.

His head had been a mess for most of the day, it _hurt_ as well as was just not in the right place; thoughts seemed to manifest themselves backwards in his mind and he mulled too much over his mistakes, what would await him now and the reason for Ammet’s treachery. His stump with bare-lained bone and gristle pulsed, paining him more with each passing minute as first blood oozed out of the wound, then pus. The blade the girl used had most likely been dirty and given him an infection because by what he assumed to be evening Khaba grew a fever and with it came the hallucinations.

The light above made him see shadows that had his own form, they shifted and swayed and then dispersed like shattering glass. They danced around him, at first whispering sweet nothings in a soft voice, then mocked him and his stupidity, laughed at him in a shrill tone that sounded so very familiar and yet bizarre. Claws ran over his form as the shadows laughed and laughed and laughed while tormenting him. Khaba screamed when the shadows closed in on himself and tried to touch his face in a cruel mockery of a lover’s gentle touch, fell into hysterics when they ridiculed him because _oh, how right they were, he was a gullible proud fool_ and sobbed when they disappeared just like he sobbed when they manifested once again. 

In a moment of clarity he awoke, found himself alone and proceeded to strip off his wine-stained tunic that was beginning to reek and wrapped himself in the linen blanket, who cared if it was a rag, there was no one here to see him anyway. Solomon had clearly intended for him to die in here, no one had brought water or food until now and he was losing his mind. It was a formidable way to break your enemy, no doubt about it. He had to applaud the old fool, it could be something out of his book as well.

When he fell into an uneasy sleep, he dreamt of Solomon. The king stood over him, dressed ostentatiously like always and exuding power just like he exuded perfume. For a moment Khaba thought he would be sick because the sweet stench made his head spin, but he stayed wrapped up in the blanket and didn’t say a single word.

Solomon spoke in a voice so far away from them that Khaba scarcely understood him, and the little he understood sounded not human at all. Another apparition showed up, a woman he had never met before and both king and woman looked at him with eyes burning like pits of tar on fire. 

When they left, Khaba awoke again from his dream and found himself covered in sweat and his entire hand as if it had been set aflame. He never screamed at the pain though, whenever it surged through his arm and bit his lips so hard that at some point his teeth drew blood. 

His head, though, was buzzing so much that he considered hitting it against the brick wall, it would hurt, yes, but it could maybe stop the scrambled thoughts that ghosted through his brain from driving him mad. Then he realized he _already_ was thinking like a madman and forced himself to lay on the cold hard floor and closed his eyes. 

With the taste of iron in his mouth, Khaba once again fell asleep. 

He dreamt of half a life spent beneath the earth. The darkness of the corridors was a stark contrast to the white-robbed figures with gleaming gold choking their necks and large pale eyes. He didn’t run as he walked past them, a presence stuck behind him but not a pursuer — a protector who guarded him. 

Prayers were sung by an unseen choir and he didn’t stop a single time as he wandered through this monochromatic world. He held his head up high as he passed through the crowd of lessers until he stepped up to an altar and a wizened man, smaller and yet so much bigger than he remembered, gave him a cruel smile, teeth made of gold and sharper than knives. 

He stepped up to him, ignored the hot burning on his cheeks and the pain that broke out on his face as he wrapped his long-fingered hands around his throat. His long fingernails he pressed into the man’s skin and blood quelled beneath them like liquid garnets. The golden dots painted on his cheekbones ran down the old wrinkly face, a cruel mockery of the blood on his own face and in his wrath he drove his nails even deeper into the neck, piercing through and forcing his victim to choke on his blood. It sprayed onto Khaba’s face as he coughed but it mattered as little to him as all the eyes in the room being on the violent scene, observing what was happening with cold detachment like one might watch a boring entertainer. 

Gentle cold hands with sharp talons as fingers laid on his shoulders, then down his back and over his sides. They caressed his chest from behind in a gentle embrace as if to soothe him and only then he let go of the old charlatan, his throat a bloody mess and his hands covered in the remains of it. 

_It doesn’t matter._ Hundreds of voices, all from the throats of the assembled spoke at once. _You’ll always be a victim._

And with that the talons slashed his own throat, ripped into it and _pulled_. He choked and gasped and was pushed onto the altar like an animal readied for a sacrifice. He didn’t feel the impact of his head on the cold basalt stone when everything went dark.

  
  


A warm gust of wind hit his face and the darkness before his eyes dissolved like a single drop of ink in clear water. Something at the far end of the cell shifted, the noise of stone upon stone and any warmth that had entered was closed off to him again. 

Khaba locked at the wall through drowsy eyes. A dark shape stood there, lingering as if they were unsure to approach him. Maybe because of something resembling shame or regret?

“Ammet?” Khaba’s own voice sounded alien to him, his throat was raw and felt as if someone had reached into his throat and sanded it down. He pushed himself off the ground and shivered as the blanket fell off his shoulders.

“By Osiris’ teats.”

Khaba froze. _That voice… this isn’t Ammet._ He blinked multiple times and stared at the figure stepping closer and now into the pale blue light. He opened his mouth, gaped without saying something, closed it again. 

“I didn’t know what to expect but somehow this is low, even for your standards.” The voice was low, the words spoken in Egyptian and its tone cutting and sharper than any of Khaba’s dissection knives had ever been. 

He couldn’t tear his eyes off the face belonging to someone he could only describe as a familiar stranger as his thoughts were so mingled that even though the memories came to him, he couldn’t hold onto them. 

There were lines on the face that hadn’t been there fifteen years before but were now amplified thanks to the cold light; crow’s feet, wrinkles on the forehead and around the corners of the mouth. The scowl was ever-present though and hadn’t changed in the least; some things would always remain the same.

A face resembling this one but much younger as well as the name belonging to its owner came to his mind. “Meritites?”

The woman tilted her shaven head. “You are coherent then. Solomon told me you were hallucinating heavily and—” She stopped abruptly in her steps towards him, something about his face had to have surprised him. Her eyes widened for a fraction, then she quickly turned away her head and stared at the brick wall opposite to the one where Khaba had positioned himself. Khaba reached up to his face, thanks to muscle memory with his right one, and let out a pained hiss as something wet on his cheekbones touched his pulsating stump. He couldn’t remember having been given water at any point —

_Oh._

He quickly wiped away... the remainder of his dreamt outburst with a somewhat less dirty corner of the blanket. Meritites’s interest in the brick wall and the floor of his cell was remarkable, she ignored his existence so well he could’ve believed that she was an illusion as well or a fragment of his dreams. But the more seconds passed, the more Khaba sobered up. No, this could be no dream. Until now Meritites had never wormed her way into any of those and she wasn’t about to start now.

He cleared his throat awkwardly once he was done. Meritites threw him a quick look and shuffled her feet. 

“... as I was saying, I wasn’t sure if I would be able to speak to you with your senses in their place. And no, I’m not your slave in disguise. Sorry to disappoint.”

_Slave_ …

“With your demeanour and face, you sober up even the most notorious drunkards in the taverns of Thebes.” Khaba wrapped the blanket tighter around himself again and tried to look more dignified than what he actually felt like. It was true — Meritites’s presence was somehow bringing him a clarity to his head that he had missed despite not even noticing it was gone. 

“Becoming as always. You forget you are talking to the High Priestess of Ra and not some mediocre acolyte you'd steal incense from.” Meritites snarled, clicked her tongue and leaned back. Khaba half-expected her to crash unceremoniously onto the dirty floor with her backside first but she remained seated as if in an invisible chair. A twirl of the finger and a faint bulb of light, blue as well but much more potent than the imp light, manifested on her palm. She raised her hand and it floated above them. 

“Still high priestess, eh? Congratulations, I suppose.“

“Don't bother with false modesty. I sadly didn’t hold _your_ ambitions and it obviously put us on different paths — you are having the great honor sitting in someone else’s shit.”

Khaba scoffed and crossed his arms, but gasped when his stump made contact. He cursed himself for displaying such open weakness and looking thoroughly pathetic. 

“Why are you here? To take my place? To run back to Thebes and Memphis afterwards and deliver a tale to that boy-king of yours and the other pathetic priests that will become the envy of all entertainers?”

The current pharaoh Pasebkhanut II was old, his rule was declining and thus most symbolic for the general state the kingdom had found itself in for many years now, and there were rumors of the eldest son of another prominent family being the next to take the throne, with not little help coming from the priesthood — and thus Meritites. It was an affair they had discussed among the Seventeen a while ago and how they were to profit from the change in power, but none of that would happen now. 

Meritites's mocking smile exposed the gap in between her teeth. “You think I want the job that puts me in a cell underneath the palace kitchens and crushes my spirit?”

“You know _exactly_ what I mean.” 

The two former acolytes of the priesthood glared at each other. Meritites tilted her chin upwards and looked down her nose at Khaba. He broke the eye contact first with a hiss.

“ _I_ ,” Meritites began and sounded just like the old priestess who had taught the apprentices Old and Middle Egyptian so many years ago, “am here to clean up the _mess_ you created here, because _of course_ you had to implicate us in your folly. I don't know _why_ you did it, I admittedly don't care but imagine the joy while I was being groomed and shaven, Userhat bursted into my room and told me that, and I quote, 'that overambitious son of a bitch is laying waste to Jerusalem.'”

“Userhat?”

Meritites tapped her chin, then seemed to remember. “You remember him as 'Calamari Cockring'.” 

“Oh, _him_. He's still alive?”

“Yes, but that's not important. What _is_ is that as a former priest, this falls under my responsibilities and a quick look into the crystal balls told us two things: that you wrecked untold destruction upon the city and were in possession of…” She trailed off but made a meaningful expression. 

Khaba barely suppressed a grin. 

“I'm glad you find humor in the little things.” Meritites spat. “Once we saw that you had failed in your ordeal, we decided to travel to Jerusalem as quickly as possible. The diplomatic relations between the kingdoms of Israel and Egypt can't be allowed to fester over an outsider.”

“How very pragmatic of you. If I had succeeded I would've saved you the journey and allowed you to kneel before me and pledge your allegiance to me in Karnak.” Khaba fixed her with a glare and enjoyed how her scowl deepened.

“Considering we are talking about you, it's more probable that you'd dip my severed head in tar and mount it over your throne right next to Solomon's and the girl's.”

“Girl?”

“ _The_ girl? That Asmira character, the Sheban I just saw sitting next to Solomon as he had me in his crosshairs? Judging by the face you're making, she did something that ended up with you down here and her up there.”

Khaba spat on the floor. “I should've allowed Ammet to skin that peasant broad when I had the chance.”

“Stop dwelling on the past and focus on the future. A future that, admittedly isn't looking too peachy for you.” The statement was said very matter-of-fact, without any venom, but Khaba knew Meritites to mask her true emotions quite well. He for sure would have enjoyed himself if he were in her spot. 

“It seems that Solomon is intent on letting me die of hunger and dehydration unless illness claims me first.” Khaba flexed his hand demonstratively and grinned at Meritites.

“No, that'd be something _I'd_ give you, or rather advise my sovereign to do. If you had betrayed me, I’d draw your suffering out as long as I could.” She sighed. “Solomon on the other hand… he is as forgiving as he is said to be wise, which, if you were to ask me, is a pathetic trait. No, _he_ wants to hang you on the gallows. Tomorrow at dawn.”

Khaba looked at her. She could’ve told him what she had for breakfast and he would’ve reacted the same. 

“I'm here to judge you, whether you are guilty in the eyes of the gods or not. Solomon has already done that and his verdict should be clear to anyone who has heard a whisper of what happened; treason against the crown, attempted murder, _actual_ murder of public figures and manslaughter of civilians — and yes, the latter _do_ matter to Solomon, vandalism on a large scale, and, of course, theft.”

_Ah_. 

“And what do our gods say?”

Meritites rubbed her temple and didn't answer him. Khaba laughed. In fact, he couldn't stop laughing even when Meritites looked at him as if she wanted to throw herself at him and end his misery right here and then. 

The prospect of his death already being decided was no laughing matter, but Meritites’ apparent hesitation about _saying_ so to his face… that was what amused him, and he wasn’t ashamed to show it. He had nothing to lose anymore after all.

She took a deep breath. “Did the _object_ do this, or is this just the natural progression of what happened once you left Thebes? Because Solomon isn’t like this.”

“The _ring_ .” Khaba said. Other than his old acquaintance he was afraid no more to say it out loud; _he_ had nothing to fear after all. “No feeling could ever compare to holding that power in my hands.” 

“And how did it feel?” It could've been a trick of the light but Khaba was certain there had been a glint of hunger in her large eyes. 

He remembered how the ring had burned him, hotter than fire ever could burn anyone, how his strength had been downright siphoned out of his body and how he couldn’t seem to gain it even though a significant amount of time had passed. 

He imagined if Meritites had been in his place, whether she was strong enough to stomach the pain (yes, as he remembered her being surprisingly bull-headed, arguably even more than he had been back in the days) and the ensuing bout of weakness once the first command had been spoken. Maybe she would exhaust herself and look just like Solomon had in his chambers, wizened and frail. For a single moment he considered telling her how exactly she could steal the ring according to what the false priestess had told him, just to have her pay the exact same price he had given up for absolutely nothing. 

Had Meritites ever known betrayal from a confidante, from someone she loved? He hoped she would come to experience it one day in the future, just so he could get the last laugh on her as his bones were rotting in a nameless grave in the desert.

Khaba leant forward towards her.

“Exhilarating.” He whispered in a low voice. The glint was gone, Meritites nodded and studied his face. “But you didn’t answer my question. What are the _gods_ telling you… does Ra see a guilty man? Does Isis? Would they not rather have one of their servants with such power at his disposal than a heathen?”

Meritites closed her eyes for a second and then opened them to level him cooly. “They see and know the same as I do. Solomon’s will is strong and he has the,”, she tapped her own ringfinger, “but the laws of our land and men everywhere are more important. Without them, we could as well live like animals.” She sighed. “You are a son of Egypt, as well as a son of Karnak. To allow the Israelites to punish one of our own would prove the Pharaoh to be weak, by which I mean the gods themselves, and if the gods are weak then so is the priesthood, by which I mean _me_.”

Khaba gaped at her words.

Returning to Egypt after having failed in his coup would make him a pariah for two reasons.

The first one was the fact that he had implicated the Pharaoh as wanting to profit from the whole ordeal — which was nonsense of course; if everything had gone accordingly to the quickly improvised plan, the Pharaoh would’ve been in chains, the most powerful noble families of Egypt intimidated more than enough so they wouldn’t think of trying anything against him and the priesthood under his service. Meritites he obviously would have needed to eliminate as one of the first, more than gladly he would’ve properly introduced her to Ammet so he could try out all those ideas they had in the last couple of years and whether or not they worked on humans as well as they worked on spirits; they’d need a strong-willed individual for this. Back in the days when the newly crowned High Priestess of Ra had been an unstable ally as well as his biggest adversary, they had conspired together how to get rid of her in case she ever became as dangerous as Weneg had been. He would have given her the opportunity to serve him, in a way that surely would have pleased Ammet a lot.

But Ammet wasn’t here, he remembered.

The second one was the fact that he _hadn’t_ succeeded in stealing the ring and thus freeing Egypt so they were doomed to continue dancing to Solomon’s tune. When the ring had shown up, the kingdoms surrounding Israel, once proud and powerful, were now cowering before a young king with a faible for jugglers and women. That liberty being so close and having been snatched away right in front of their noses was sure to upset many people, especially those who would’ve been among the first casualties or prisoners, had Khaba had his way. 

They ought to count themselves more than lucky.

But _why_ was she doing this? She had to be living in a dreamworld if she thought she could change Solomon's mind.

“Consider it a favor I'm doing you considering how far I might stick my neck out for you.” Meritites crossed her legs. “'Thank you, Meritites, may life, prosperity and health bless you.' 'You're more than welcome, Khaba.'”

He studied her face. 

_This is a trick_ , was his first thought. 

_This is bait for a life debt_ , his second. 

Favors of this sort _always_ demanded payback, and the saving of a life either meant to put your own life in servitude of your saviour _or_ commit a deed at least as great in return. The tables had once been reserved; while killing Weneg was something he did exclusively for himself, he had found a way to place a debt on Meritites because such things had their usefulness.

There was a cruel irony in the High Priestess turning his own strategy on himself but she was a fool if she truly thought he'd shake hands with her on something like that as she had done so once upon a time. Or had she known that one day the wheel would turn? 

Khaba grinned. He felt hardly human as he did so and he vaguely remembered the blood in his mouth — he surely looked downright ghastly to her. But there was no shock or surprise in Meritites's eyes and just her usual irritation as she frowned. It angered him and he realized he couldn't just sit in front of her as he spoke, so with a sudden surge of strength, he pushed himself off the floor and towered over her seated form. His bones burned as he stood and he felt his body shake as he forced himself to stay on his feet. He had been taller than her when he left Egypt, although that hadn't been the case during the early years of their apprenticeship, and now he still loomed over her, looking down as she merely raised an eyebrow at him. Her way of non-verbally challenging him.

“ _Fuck_ you and fuck your favor.”

Meritites frowned. “So this is a no?”

A high laugh escaped Khaba. “Did the royal incense or the massage oil cloud your senses? _You will not turn me into your slave_.” 

He almost barked the last sentence at her, in hopes to see her flinch, in hopes to tilt the scale in his favor and give him back some power. And it _did_ have an effect, because there was a furious glint in her dark eyes. Then she chuckled as anger gave way to amusement and she rose as well, forcing him to step back.

„You _are_ a slave, Khaba, from the very moment you set foot on the soil of Solomon’s land. But that’s not even the worst of it; you sold yourself off to the highest bidder. _That_ is the true tragedy of it. You're nothing but a common whore who thinks himself a king and _I pity you_ for your illusions of grandeur.” 

Her words were nothing more than a whisper but they enraged him more than she would've had if she had screamed. For a moment he saw himself wrap his hands around her throat and choke the life out of her, her mocking gaze turned into true terror and she went to the underworld knowing it was _him_ who had put an end to her.

But there was no marid at his side who with his mere presence could have encouraged him and had his back. He had _no one_ in here and it was beginning to weigh on him so he tried to not think about it.

Khaba spat out at Meritites’ feet.

“ _Please_. As if you are any different. A slave not just to the priesthood but also to the pharaoh, whether he is some old fool or a green brat - neither wield any power. Do you enjoy being a daughter that takes care of her elders, or rather a doting mother? And here I thought you hated children.”

Meritites jutted out her chin.

“ _I_ bid my time accordingly. If you had done so too, I wouldn't need to be here.”

“Well, _I didn't tell you to come_.” Khaba shrieked and stared at her. His legs were threatening to give away underneath him and his arms were trembling. He had closed his hands to fists and grinded his teeth through the pain that shot through his right hand.

For a moment neither said anything. Nothing besides Khaba's heavy breathing could be heard.

“I know.” Meritites's voice was cold and she took a careful and calculated step away from him. “But the way I see this affair it's little more than a very public humiliation — of Karnak, of Memphis and of you. It'll be a _humiliating_ death.”

Khaba grinned and took a step back as well, let himself lean against the wall. 

“I'd rather end my life on the gallows than peacefully in my sleep after spending the rest of my days as your lapdog. Or would you have taken your own offer if you were in my place?”

Meritites's lips switched. “Do you need me to answer?”

Khaba slid down the wall and set back on the floor. He opened his fist and scoffed as he studied his wound. 

“What I wouldn't give for that silver dagger the bitch had maimed me with.” He snarled. “I'd cut my own throat and laugh at Solomon from the underworld in the morning when he finds my body.”

„If he weren't to kill me on the spot the moment he would find out once I leave the cell, I‘d slip you a blade. If I had a choice in manner of death, I’d rather die than be killed — but alas. I had to leave my most trusted servant with Solomon, take off any talismans and even decorative jewelry.” She flexed her own fingers, slender, perfectly manicured and with long nails painted dark with henna. Khaba himself had a strict routine when it came to his hands and so despite the usage of the essence flail or experimentation in the vaults they had remained silky to the touch.

“Solomon takes security to a new level.”

“I could've tried to sneak a wine bottle in here and make you watch me drink it.”

“Please, I would've beaten your head to a bloody pulp with it if you had done that.”

The right corner of Meritites's mouth switched, too quick to see for the human eye. Then she averted her eyes and clasped her hands behind her back, looked at him again 

“Since you have made peace with your fate; Any belongings to be put in your tomb? I will be talking your remains back to Egypt — that, Solomon will surely allow me, being a pious man and all that business. Any magician knows what‘s gone is _gone_ , no matter how much the common rabble would prefer us to be necromancing charlatans. Your body isn't going to be coming back to life to haunt Solomon until his dying day and we all know that.”

“Will Solomon _grant_ you any of my belongings? I'm _excommunicado_ from the priesthood all but officially.”

“If I give a good reason, perhaps.”

“The essence flail and Weneg's scrying stone. To remember the 'good old days'.”

Meritites furrowed her brow. “Those mass-produced trinkets you can buy at Thebes marketplace?”

“This one is an original.”

“Ah yes, I remember your little 'study' trips. I shouldn't be surprised you kept the scrying stone. I'll see what I can do.”

He nodded. For a moment Meritites didn't speak but Khaba could have sworn she had bitten her lip for the briefest of moments.

„Shall I record you in the annals of the priesthood?“

Khaba looked up at her; he hadn‘t expected her to ask _that_. Out of impulse he scoffed, she had some nerve to be joking.

„Don‘t scoff.“ Meritites snarled. „You sound like a petulant child. Be glad I asked, it‘s more than you deserve. It is a great honor, you ungrateful bastard.“

“Do whatever pleases you.”

„Fine. Anything else?”

Khaba looked up at her. She still had her hands clasped behind her back and her shoulders were tense as she waited for his answer. _Was_ there anything else he was in dire need of right now? Water or food he wouldn't get, just like he couldn't get his hands on something to end his own life in his way. 

He thought of Ammet, how he surely had to have been dismissed along with Nimshik, Menes and the others before he had been brought into the cell. He had to talk to him, but here he lacked any material to do a summoning, even to draw a circle and his strength had waned too much by now to allow him to call a demon of Ammet's power to Earth without harming him. 

But Khaba had to. He didn't like the thought of this being the last interaction with his… Well, what was Ammet to him? He was still a demon, of course but he was also his brother — not a mere human sibling connected by blood and water, but his counterpart, connected to each other by personality and affection as much as anything else.

Had he been the only one who saw their relationship as one of loving alternates of each other while in Ammet's eyes they had never truly left the master-slave relationship? He would have thought that all those private moments between them in addition to the liberties granted to him were enough to prove that Ammet was no mere slave. Had him sharing his most treasured thoughts and carnal delights not said more than words?

He knew Meritites wouldn't deny him a request. She was pathetic in her apparent sentimentality, especially because he had never expected it from her. She would've been eaten alive in Jerusalem if their roles had been switched.

He could tell her to summon Ammet, explain the situation to him and _force_ him to face him again. He would have to follow her commands and thus couldn't possibly avoid him. 

“No.”

It was folly. Treachery rarely stopped at some point and Ammet knew his _true_ name. _That_ was something that he could never allow anyone to know, regardless whether he was dead and gone or not.

Meritites nodded. “Very well.” She turned his back to him, walked in three quick strides to the door and raised a fist to demand exit. She stopped in the movement, hesitated and looked at him again. 

Khaba was in the process of wrapping the blanket tighter around his once again shivering form when she spoke.

  
“Farewell.”

He looked up at her. There was something in her face which he couldn't name, had never seen before either.

She knocked on a brick in the wall. “Slave! I'm done here, open the door!”

There was a brief shuffle by the door and the stone wall moved to one side. Light briefly blinded them both and a warm yet fresh breeze of air entered the cell while Khaba had his eyes squeezed shut. When he opened them again, the door was in the process of closing again; he saw a narrow stripe of light and then the only light source was the imp light — the blue orb had vanished.

Meritites was gone. Had she been here at all? Or just another hallucination?

Khaba's stump was burning and pulsating, he felt cold sweat beads build weight on his forehead and roll down his face. A knot was slowly but surely twisting his stomach and he suppressed the feeling of bile rising up his throat. 

He didn't bother occupying his thoughts with high priestesses and former acolytes before he closed his eyelids, heavy thanks to the building temperature. 

In his dream he was on his knees, trying to scratch a summoning circle into the floor with his bare hands. At some point his fingers were so bloodied that he tried drawing the circle instead but then when he stood in the final product, he found out that men with a cut throat rarely spoke clearly, if at all. 

**_Asmira_ **

Asmira slept on the most comfortable bed she had laid in ever since leaving Marib, arguably even her entire life — and surprisingly, she had the hardest time when it came to falling asleep as well. It was too _soft_ so she spent most of the night turning and trying to get some rest but it was more likely for her to have found sleep while sleeping on the floor with a blanket beneath her than like this. 

Being a morning person, she rose along with the sun and cursed as she saw her face in the mirror with deep rings underneath her eyes. 

She would need her strength for today, as she was to leave the palace. Solomon had kept on offering her material goods and riches as a thanks for saving his life and opening his eyes to what really mattered. Her belongings — which technically didn’t even belong to her — were still in Marib, lost to her, so she had accepted a small amount of what Solomon had initially offered her.

The previous midday she had gone to the marketplace and spoken with the leader of a merchant group; a camel train was to depart tomorrow morning. She wished to join them this afternoon down in the city and with enough luck, their route crossed paths with the frankincense route, and with even more she’d meet some of them sooner or later. 

She wished to leave because she was beginning to grow tired of the palace and of Jerusalem as a whole. Compared to Marib it was _too_ great, too many people, too much that was happening all around and at all times. A nexus point of the region, she knew Jerusalem had been compared to the older cities of Babylon and Thebes but from what she saw now, she could already tell she wasn’t born to live in the stressful metropolitan life.

Asmira washed herself and put her old clothes back on. They gave more comfort to her than the new garbs she had bought yesterday and to her surprise, they weren’t stained with sweat and dirt anymore but had been washed and smelt strongly of jasmine. Asmira wrinkled her nose, but she would have to get used to the smell or wash it out properly the next time.

She had been brushing her hair when a servant entered her room. The way she held herself suggested a non-human nature and once Asmira was fully dressed, she followed the demon down from her chambers and through the palace halls, which during the night had almost been completely reconstructed. She remembered how much time it had taken for the fire the vicious demon had set to the tower of Marib to be extinguished while the palace here had positively almost been leveled to the ground in some parts and yet was standing once again in its glory, or at least close to it. 

The demon led her out of the palace building itself and to the walls surrounding it. The sun wasn’t touching the horizon anymore and hung like a white orb over the hills to the east of Jerusalem. The great sun god was ever-watching, guarding her even here so far away from her home, and he would continue to do so when she would start her travels.

A gigantic canopy had been set over the parapet under which a large crowd of people stood. High-ranking officials, magicians, wives, servants, and in the midst of them but still with people taking respectful distance from him, stood Solomon himself.

“Ah, good morning Asmira, so good to see you!” His eyes brightened and he smiled when he saw Asmira. The crowd parted for him and let him pass through as he came to greet her.

Asmira smiled but remained hesitant. She knew exactly of Solomon’s fondness of her, he had made it all too clear that she held her in _extremely_ high esteem after the events of the penultimate night, and that there was nothing he wanted more than for Asmira to remain in Israel. Bartimaeus had been right, he _was_ trying to turn his charm on her, but Asmira wouldn’t be that easily beguiled — not at all as a matter of fact. 

In a way she knew that Solomon knew that as well but it seemed he just couldn’t help with being overly charismatic when she was around. Anyone else might have quickly enough fallen for his words and been too thankful to accept a position as courtier just to spend the rest of their days basking in the warm glow Solomon emitted — but she wasn’t just anyone. She wanted to see the world, she wanted to help those truly in need and she wanted for the first time in her life to truly be free to do whatever _she_ wanted.

“Good morning. I see we have drawn quite a crowd?” 

“Yes, you could say so!”

Solomon led her through the courtiers, servants (one of whom offered her a glass of cooled mint tea, which she accepted with a thank you), wives, magicians and to a row of chairs — although it might be more accurate to call the one Solomon no doubt occupied a small _throne_ — on which a handful of people were already seated.

One of them was Queen Balkis. When she saw Asmira, her gaze hardened and she turned around quickly to not have to look at her. She obviously was displeased with the fondness Solomon held for her. 

The others were the remainder of the Seventeen, Solomon’s head magicians — although their number had been greatly reduced, not just because some (namely the vizier Hiram; a Nubian woman called Elbesh, a man named Nisroch from Anatolia and five others whose names had escaped her) had been killed during the attack but also because others hadn’t been willing to participate in Solomon’s future government plans — about which he seemed to be quite serious. 

So far the actual number of supreme magicians that had stuck to Solomon’s side was down to five — Shirin from Persia, Septimus from a far-away land to the North beyond the Great Sea, Liuyin of the Zhou, a powerful empire she had never even _heard_ of, and two men, one a magician-priest from India and the other a shaman from the steppe to the northeast of the Assyrian borders. 

They all looked at her with curiosity when she walked by them, recognizing her from the banquet two nights ago and a few of them had not just a little jealousy in their eyes. The throne was free, as was the only remaining chair to his left. Solomon sat down, Balkis to his right side who still stared out straightforwardly as if the highest buildings of Jerusalem were the most interesting things in the world to her, and motioned Asmira with a gentle gesture to seat herself as well. 

To her left side was none of Solomon’s highest advisers, but the Egyptian high priestess, Meritites. Asmira’s first impression of the woman had been one of deep distrust and antipathy, something about her perpetual frown caused her mood to drop as well. Her carefully considered emotive responses along with the general air of condescension about her person didn’t play in her favor either, nor did her low voice which mandated those around her to quiet down and listen to what she had to say. 

She reminded Asmira of the magician Khaba, especially in the way she carried herself and seemed to be proud of being an intimidating person. She could’ve passed easily as his sister despite not bearing any great physical resemblance to the treacherous magician in the least, with the exception of the equally shaven head and a cold pallor on her dark brown skin (even if it was decisively fainter). Asmira figured it was the _smell_ that clung about her, covered up by whichever oils and perfumes her servants must use when grooming her but still _there_ , and anything but faintly. 

As Asmira sat down, her nose caught a whiff of it and she pulled herself together to not make a displeased face. 

“Lady Asmira.” Meritites’ low voice was directed at her, but even when she gave a brief nod in response, the magician didn’t give her more than a quick look out of the corner of her reddish-brown eyes and kept on looking down the parapet at the scene in front of them; the reason why they were all here.

Asmira found herself surprisingly uncaring about the fate of the Egyptian. It was deserving, no doubt about that, and she thought him vile and vicious, but at the same time she truly didn’t care what would happen to him. At most she felt a grim sense of satisfaction but beyond that? The magician wasn’t important enough to raise sympathy or hatred from her, he was just a pathetic little man who had needed to exert his power over others to feel alive.

She didn’t assume for others to feel the same way as she saw unabashed glee and malicious joy in the faces of some courtiers and the five remaining Seventeen. She wouldn’t be surprised if beneath Balkis’s serene face there was also a not-small amount of vindication after her city had been attacked — not because of the ones that had died, or even other people from other nations who had suffered the same way, _no_ , but rather that it was an insult at her specifically as ruler of Sheba. 

Asmira shivered. Having been used by Balkis in such an insidious way had affected her more than she wanted to admit to herself, so she preferred to not think about it but the moments the thoughts resurfaced, she felt incredibly naive. She knew the chances of seeing Bartimaeus again during her lifetime were more than slim but she knew she would have to properly thank him at some point for opening her eyes 

Asmira followed Meritites’s gaze, looked down the parapet as well outside the gates of the palace. A gallows had been constructed down on the ground, with one noose. Demons stood with their backs to the palace and kept the humans who had come to watch the spectacle at a distance. She suddenly understood why Solomon had chosen for a public execution instead of simply turning his ring or touching it; this was for everyone to see, and the result wouldn’t be a frozen column with a vaguely recognisable face or a white owl — only a corpse.

Solomon wanted to make an example out of the Egyptian because in a way, he was the figurehead of everything that had been wrong with the Seventeen: their corruption, blackmailing, abuse of power and treachery. Killing him was symbolic for the end of the old ways of Solomon’s government and would give way for a new era to begin.

As much as she wished Solomon success and the best of the luck… she couldn’t make herself care enough about his plans for a better tomorrow to lock herself up in a cage once again after just having freed herself. Who knew, maybe in a few years she’d grow tired of being on the frankincense road and decided to go to Jerusalem to take a good look at how Solomon was doing — provided he was still alive. But he would cling onto life for as long as he hadn’t found a solution for the ring and its power to be safe from hands belonging to ambitious and vicious individuals. 

Her eyes wandered to the King who had leaned in to hear whatever Balkis was saying. The Queen’s voice was barely a whisper but Asmira heard something resembling “justice for Sheba” and turned her attention away from them. She didn’t need to hear Balkis pretend at caring about her subjects when she only cared about them as _subjects_ — when she had no trouble throwing them away on a whim.

She briefly looked at the Theban high priestess and twitched when their eyes met. 

“Are you nervous?”

Asmira blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I asked if you’re nervous. Ever seen a man get hanged before? They never die right away when the fall is too short, instead they just get strangled to death as they twitch and kick out with their legs, as if they’re still fighting death.”

Meritites’s eyes were of a warm hue but at the same time even colder to her than the long nights in the desert had felt. The tone of her voice angered Asmira and she answered despite herself. 

“I’ve killed men myself.” _I’m not some innocent maid, don’t underestimate me._

“I don’t doubt it.” 

Meritites’s demon, the lanner falcon, suddenly appeared in between them; apparently it had changed forms. It spoke in a gentle voice to its mistress in a language Asmira assumed to be Egyptian; the high priestess nodded and dismissed it with a curt wave of the hand. 

“Show’s about to begin. Try to not stare, but look rather a bit bored — as if this were a mediocre play.”

Asmira bit her tongue and swallowed the desire to tell Meritites her exact thoughts, but movement below them caught her eye.

Two demons in the guises of muscular tall men with magnificent wings made of jade brought a much smaller figure between them to the gallow, basically dragging him while respectively holding one arm each, either because he couldn’t walk or didn’t want to. Asmira remembered the slow steps Khaba had made on the balcony after using the ring for just a few moments. If he had continued like this, he would’ve exhausted all of his energy by sunrise. A pathetic little man on every level. 

They basically pulled him up to the gallows and let him stand before the assembled crowd; before the King. Solomon raised his left hand, and _everyone_ , be they under the canopy or on the plaza in front of the palace gates stopped talking. The quiet was ear-deafening.

The King of the Israelites stepped to the balustrade and looked at his people, he didn’t need to turn towards those behind him for them to know he was addressing _them_ as well.

“My people, my servants to whom I am also a servant.” His calm voice was magically amplified in order for everyone to hear exactly what he was saying. It was a most effective tool, Asmira recognized, as well as calling familiarity to his subjects. 

“I have had an epiphany as my city was under attack, and this vision is why we are still standing here upon our feet and continuing life as we know it. I saw the future as it should be, and as it _will_ be but only once the old ways have been set aside.”

Solomon’s words were a more prolonged version and ready to be announced at an official function of what he had told her in private. Asmira found herself tuning out his voice despite its charm, or maybe even because of it? Something about him didn’t seem as beguiling anymore as it had when he had given her the offer, and yet she preferred it that way — it gave him more humanity as a person and not upheld him as solely a monarch of great wisdom and such.

As he continued talking, Asmira looked around herself and saw that he was the complete focus of attention in this very moment. The sky could have been aflame and she doubted anyone would’ve been quick to notice right away, so transfixed were they on the king.

It amused her. 

No, to remain in Jerusalem truly was a folly. She would be the only one to walk away from the bright light of Solomon that attracted so many moths, be they magicians, nobles or the common folk, and feel more than good as she did. She wasn’t interested in becoming an addict to the charisma the King exuded like the smell of perfume, and she knew that he knew that.

Only when Khaba was shoved forwards and the noose put around his head did Asmira realize Solomon had stopped talking.

The magician was shoved to a small square on the wooden floor, presumably where he was going to have his deathly fall. Asmira had excellent vision, a necessity to possess as guard captain, and she saw the expression on the magician’s face. Not one of fear or regret but rather a ghoulish grin of sardonic satisfaction.

Next to her, Meritites let out a scoff. Asmira ignored her but instead leaned forward in a morbid sense of curiosity despite having seen multiple men get executed on the townsquare of Marib; men from the hill-tribes who had acted against Balkis and had to be dealt with.

The floor underneath the magician’s trembling foot was gone and he fell through it, stopping abruptly because of the rope around his neck. The high priestess had been right, of course; his legs kicked out, his hands shot upwards and tried to grasp the noose in order to loose it to no avail while his thin-lipped mouth opened and closed like a fish brought to land, gasping for air that would never enter his lungs again. 

Someone, she thought it came from the seats where the remaining Seventeen sat, chuckled.

Asmira herself watched the slow fight for life against death with detached indifference. When finally Khaba’s feet stopped twitching, his head had turned a distasteful dark purple and his hands fell uselessly to the side, she considered standing up right away and leaving for the market of Jerusalem. She didn’t — instead she waited for Solomon to address his subjects once again, now that the traitor was dead and a new era was about to begin for Israel and Jerusalem. When he finished, life returned to the many people assembled and quiet discussions began. 

“Well, that was entertaining.” Meritites murmured and stood up with a deep sign. Asmira studied her, and tried to look for something in her behaviour that would cause her to dislike the woman even more; found nothing.

“He was one of your own.” She heard herself say.

The high priestess’ mouth twitched in resemblance of something that could perhaps be considered a very quick smile. 

“That means very little to the likes of me and magicians everywhere, maid of Sheba. The biggest service I will be doing him is not allowing him to become a feast for crows or _worse_.” With those words, the High Priestess of Ra walked to her small entourage of Theban priests and began to speak with them in quick Egyptian.

Asmira shrugged. She took the final sip of her mint tea as she eavesdropped on the conversation of Solomon and Balkis, just for the sake of curiosity.

“The high priestess _will_ tell Pasebkhanut II to pay me reparations for the destruction of the tower. Marib could’ve been set aflame because of that, and I demand a payment in his purest Sinai turquoises.”

Asmira rolled her eyes, then she stood up, passed by Solomon (who she gave a little wave which was registered with a smile and a wave in return) and Balkis (who scowled at the sight of her) and through the crowd of servants, magicians, courtiers and demons. Some did step back or stop in their tracks at the sight of her to let her pass by but it was in no means comparable to how the crowd had parted for Solomon earlier — this was nothing she desired or wanted. 

She smiled when the rising sun shone on her head once again after having left the vicinity of the canopy. Then, without the demon, as she believed she had the way remembered just well enough, she returned to her chambers, collected her belongings and with the help of a servant took them with her to leave the palace through the northern gate. 

By the time it was afternoon, she had already joined the merchants with whom she was to travel for the next few weeks; the next morning she left Jerusalem before the sun peered over the horizon.

**Author's Note:**

> Can you tell that is my first time writing Asmira and Solomon? If no, then good! I like to believe I did a well-enough job when it comes to them. 
> 
> Some amount of historical online research went into the making of this but since I'm no egyptologist or ever studied ancient semitic cultures, it's all very amateur level. Any historians, if you find this fic and cringe while reading something wildly inaccurate: my bad. I have huge respect for your field and am sorry if you had to cringe while reading this.  
> As a whole, I was super excited to have this posted and thus out of my system to move onto my next project as well as have people read it because I’m very proud of it. So, thanks for reading! <3


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